


Broken Kids

by someonespooky



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 20:38:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15781689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonespooky/pseuds/someonespooky
Summary: No. He couldn't believe this was actually happening.It wasn't. No way.





	1. Sure.

“Stanley Marsh! I told you,  _ no alcohol! _ ” Mom shouted for the fifteenth time that week. Stan blocked out her words, slamming the door on her as he stumbled into his room. He took a minute to listen and observe, as if he was trying to make sure this was still his room despite being here all the time. It was no secret that Stan was a drunk shut-in, but it'd started to get really bad after sophomore year of high school. His social anxiety had an odd way of romanticizing the way his old, electric fan buzzed on a fall afternoon while he typed his third or fourth Tumblr blog post about dealing with his mental condition. Writing poems, vents, and stories was his coping mechanism; he loved to tell his stories to people who understood. As much as his mom and dad tried their best to understand and help him cope, nothing would work.

He didn't think he'd want to ever tune into one of his mom’s phone calls that evening.

“Yes, hello, is this Dr. Mackey?” she greeted into the telephone, sounding as concerned as ever through the walls as far as Stan could hear. There was a brief pause, then another voice.

“I think he's ready to come there… Yes, he's having another flare-up, and I don't know how long I can really handle it, sir. I really just want my boy back… Yes, he's taking his medicine on time… Should I drop him off?”

The words rang in his ear.

_ Should I drop him off? _

Where was he going? For how long? Was he staying there? What was going to happen?

His rampant questions were interrupted by loud banging on the door. 

“Son! Get out here! Your mother and I need to speak with you!” a masculine voice shouted. Immediately, every bone in the boy's body tensed up as if preparing to be smacked by some invisible force. For whatever reason, albeit curiosity or guilt, Stan decided to open the door. 

Bad move.

As he trudged down the rickety steps, his eyes fell on the concerned and regretful expression on his mother's face.

“Stanley… Your father and I have decided that we are sending you to a… a place for you to get better,” Mom explained. The words felt like someone had stabbed him in the back while profusely apologizing to the boy.

“You're sending me to the correction facility? For  _ broken kids? _ ” Stan hissed.

“No, no, it's not like that. It's like therapy, but you just live there. It's going to be okay, honey,” she explained, walking over to Stan who'd been almost ready to bolt back up the stairs.

“When am I going?” he questioned on the verge of tears.

“Now,” Randy sharply responded. Unlike his mother, Randy had no remorse for his son. He was always quick to answer questions, never pondering if he even should respond.

“We already packed your things, Stan. I'm sorry…” Sharron bit her lip as if she were biting back the heaviest sobbing anyone's ever seen.

“You know what? Fuck you all. I'm going to go and show you I'm not fucking broken, you assholes,” Stan spat, almost astonished that he somehow had the confidence to swear.

“...Go get your bags,” Randy sighed as if he hadn't heard Stan.

“I'll carry them out,” Sharron corrected her husband, hoisting the backpack over her shoulder. She made eye contact with her son, who had a painfully obvious expression of betrayal. Stan didn't give it a second thought, throwing open the door and rushing out to the car. His mother trailed close behind, but his dad was nowhere to be seen. For whatever reason, that didn't surprise him.

Stan climbed into the car quietly. He didn't say a word to his mother on the ride there. His brain was too crowded with the overwhelming idea that he won't see his mother for what could be a year after this car ride, and he was absolutely petrified at that simple thought. That simple goddamn thought that he would never see her comforting face or hear her soft voice ever again. That made him want to curl up in a ball and cry. 

But he couldn't.

They arrived at the Sunford Mental Institution for Adolescents and Teenagers while the sun hung at the horizon, the atmosphere just in between friendly. Stan wasn't really sure how to feel anymore. His mom was about to give him up, but she seemed to regret it. He absolutely hated that he couldn't find a single thing to blame. He  _ hated _ it.

His mom took his hand and squeezed his palm before pulling out a sharpie, still clutching his hand, and drawing a little heart on his wrist.

“What's that?” Stan asked, curious of the tiny scribble on his wrist.

“It's called a love button. You press down on it when you want a hug, and it'll feel like I'm giving you a hug. Do you understand?” Mom explained, hugging her son.

“Yes, I understand, mom,” Stan practically sobbed into her shoulder.

“I'm going to miss you, Stanley. I'm really going to miss you. I don't want to do this, but if it's going to work, I'm willing to try, okay? I don't wanna do this,” she admitted, tears starting to form in her eyes. Her grip tightened, pressing her hands into Stan’s back.

“I love you, mom,” he cried, swaying left and right in her grip. They stayed still for a few minutes, just rocking back and forth as though he were a child. But all good things must come to an end, as Sharron’s grip slowly released the boy.

“Let's go in, okay?” Mom whispered, picking up Stan's hand. She pressed a little squeeze to the small heart on his wrist, as though to say “I love you" one more time without moving her lips.

He pressed the exact same spot on her wrist, too, not even remembering that it was only him who had a “love button.”

\--

“What is your child's name?” the monotone lady asked, tapping her pen on the front desk.

“His name is Stanley Marsh,” Sharron informed.

“And has he been here before?” the lady interrogated.

“No- Well, once. When he was a baby. So not really,” she stated.

“Lovely. Now go sit down. Dr. Mackey will be here to get you soon,” the woman finally informed the two as she scribbled something down on her clipboard. They both followed her instructions, taking a seat in a scratchy chair that wreaked of cigarette smoke.

Dr. Mackey didn't take long to arrive. He wore a small smile, as if he were content with his situation. It was nearly unsettling.

“Stanley, you can come on back, m'kay?” Mackey informed as he pointed down the hallway in which he stood at the end of. 

“Yes, sir,” Stan nodded as he followed the doctor.

“So, you will be staying on the third floor with, uh… Kyle Broflovski, Eric Cartman, Butters Stotch, and Kenny McCormick,” the doctor informed the two as he led them to a room where they'd supposedly be filling out papers in order to practically sign Stan away.

It all felt oddly blurry, like a drunken stupor, as his mom quickly scribbled down her name, shoved the pen into his hand got him to sign about three papers, and then got up and left after squeezing his wrist once more.

“So, uh, Stanley, follow me to your room, please.”

No. No. His mom was gone. She wasn't ever going to see him again. He was going to die there. This couldn't be happening. 

“Stanley?”

She was right here and now she's gone. She left without saying anything. What happened? Where did she go?

“Stanley Marsh, you need to listen to me this instant!” Mackey shouted.

“Sorry, sir. I'm right behind you,” Stan nodded as he trailed behind the doctor, up several flights of stairs. He was so grieve-stricken that it seemed like the fabric of time itself had been utterly destroyed. There was no way this was actually happening.

No. It couldn't be.

He grabbed his own wrist, examined it for a bit, and squeezed hard, not paying attention to where he was going. That heart reminded him of the creeping sunset, and the shaky sobbing of his own mother, wrapped around him.

This was real. 

“So this is your room. Since we're not exactly wealthy, you'll be staying with Broflovski. Say hi, Kyle,” Mackey instructed as he opened the door.

“Hello,” Kyle murmured, looking down at the ground while sitting on his cot.

“Hey,” I waved, hoping to get a reaction. The smile he offered seemed tired, but I accepted it nonetheless and set my bag down.

“So… What're you in for?” I joked, sitting on my own cot.

“Anger issues. Accidentally punched a kid in the face, stuff like that. He's here in this place, too, actually,” Kyle shrugged as if it were nothing.

“Oh man, what's he here for?” Stan asked, nipping at his own nails.

“Psychopathy,” he stated. He sounded so confident, like he was so sure and comfortable with admitting that.

“Wow,” was all he could muster.

“How about you? You seem… friendly enough. Don't seem like the type of kid to-”

“I have alcohol issues. And several forms of depression,” Stan cut him off.

“Lovely,” Kyle murmured. He decided to take a good look at Stan, who caught his eye for a second, which caused Kyle to panic and look away.

“Can we be friends? Just while I'm here. Or maybe longer,” Stan asked, though it was more of a proposal.

“Uh… sure,” Kyle muttered.


	2. Love Button

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thanks, Stanley."

“So we're cool?” Stan asked. He sounded deprived or upset, maybe a mix of both, as if he needed Kyle’s approval. Kyle looked at him in pure confusion, not understanding the phrase right away.

“Oh. Yeah. Uh-huh,” he stuttered, finally getting a good look at the boy and realizing  _ oh fuck he's hot. _

This was exactly what he was here for. God damnit.

Mrs. and Mr. Broflovski were very adamant about their religion. That was clear from the beginning. They constantly said that if either of their sons were gay, they wouldn't have it. So when they caught their son eyeing a typical football player with defined muscles and beautifully sculpted calves, they didn't handle it well.

“Hey, cool hat!” Stan smiled, standing up and plopping himself next to Kyle.

“Oh- uh… thanks! Yours is nice, too. It's simple and neat,” Kyle complimented.

“Holy shit, your hair is so pretty!” Stan muttered without thinking.

“You— You think so? Wow, that's really nice, heh…” the redhead stammered. Holy fuck. Holy actual fucking shit. Nope. Nope. 

“Do you know what time it is? I've barely eaten, so I'm curious if they give out food,” Stan explained. Kyle could see very clearly that his eyes fell down to his waist, observing the bony structure of the redheaded boy.

“It's probably around seven. Since we're on floor three, considered the… unstable group of kids,” Kyle harshly swallowed before continuing, “We get food last. That's when everyone's on high alert.”

“Unstable? What does that even—”

“I don't wanna talk about that,” Kyle muttered, cutting off Stan.

“Alright. Whatever you say,” Stan shrugged.

As if on cue, a knock came to the boys’ door. Stan seemed almost appalled when Kyle forcefully shoved him back to his own cot.

“Boys, it's night time meal. Get out here please,” a stronger, masculine voice husked as they continued to knock. 

“Yes, sir. We'll be out in a minute,” Kyle quickly responded as if to hush Stan from saying anything. He quickly picked up on this and shot Kyle a look of “I hate the fact that you're probably right" before he stood up and held out his hand to help the scrawny redhead up.

“Oh- um, thanks,” Kyle funbled. Oh fuck. Oh no. No no no. No. God fucking damnit. This “Stan” kid was starting to get really fucking beautiful in the worst way possible.

“You coming?” Stan asked, now looking slightly concerned.

“Yeah, sure,” Kyle nodded as the two began to walk down the almost ominous hallway. They were only about a quarter way down the hallway when Stan took notice of Kyle's weary expression.

“Do you, um, are you okay?” Stan worried.

“Yeah, just feeling a little bit down. I mean, it's nice to have you here, but at the same time I just feel like I'll never be able to—”

“Really know me?” Stan finished Kyle's sentence.

“Yeah.”

As Kyle confirmed his suspicions, Stan swiftly picked up his hand. A jolt of shock ran through the scrawny boy’s body, slightly confused and mostly appalled. Stan barely hesitated as he pushed down on the side of Kyle’s wrist.

“What’re you doing?” Kyle mumbled as he felt gentle pressure applied to his wrist.

“It’s called a love button. If I think you need a hug, or I need a hug, I can press down on mine or yours and it'll feel like a hug. I'm not exactly sure of the rules here yet, so… it's our safest bet,” Stan explained. He turned his gaze away from the empty hallway to Kyle, who he expected to be utterly disgusted or embarrassed at the thought. Instead, he was beaming, as if someone had just given him a sacred gift.

“Thanks, Stanley,” Kyle murmured, pressing down on the same part of Stan’s wrist as Stan had previously done to Kyle.


End file.
